


An Excuse

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Belly Rubs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dinner, Established Relationship, Hand Feeding, M/M, Nests, Plants, Post-Canon, Stuffing, sleeping, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: It's time for Crowley to get some doting attention and plenty of dinner.





	An Excuse

**Author's Note:**

> the-moon-loves-the-sea requested _“Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while…” or “You did all of this for me?”_ via tumblr ask meme, and it took me a while, but I have obliged! Is just... soft. 
> 
> Interestingly, it feels like a companion piece to a bunch of fics that I... haven't written yet, which deal with Crowley treating Aziraphale during the lead up to the apocalypse. But it stands on its own as well.
> 
> EDIT: Thank you to [Goldy-Gry](https://goldy-gry.tumblr.com/) for [translating this fic into Russian!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8734288)

It was a dark and stormy night.

That didn’t mean there was anything particularly evil afoot, not unless you want to ascribe intention to cold fronts and air pressure and things like that which were just out to have a good time, really. There was a demon afoot, and an angel, neither of them particularly good or particularly evil. They’d gotten caught in the storm, but both were perfectly dry.

“Looks like we’ll be trapped here for a while,” said Crowley. This was not a bad thing. They’d made it back to the bookshop and neither of them had really expected Crowley to leave anytime soon. Still, it was nice to have an excuse to stick around. Reminded him of old times when they’d always needed a reason, no matter how flimsy. Reminded him that these times were different. “Too bad about that restaurant, though.”

“I suspect we’ll manage,” said Aziraphale, making a show of shaking out his umbrella and hanging it on a hook, despite the fact that it’d had absolutely no part in their miraculous dryness. He paused for a moment as though about to say something important, and Crowley braced himself, but then Aziraphale shook himself out of it and said “go and put on some tea why don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled, though he didn’t mind, and slunk into the kitchen. Or rather, slunk to where he thought the kitchen was supposed to be. Where the kitchen had always been.

It wasn’t quite a kitchen anymore.

Well, it was, but the walls were covered in vines and flowers, creeping up from little pots of soil around the edges. The counters were completely overgrown, but the stove at least was clear. None of the leaves and blooms looked the way they ought to, and none would have passed Crowley’s scrupulous standards. Still, they made the room feel dark and safe and _alive,_ muffled the sounds of the storm in the distance, freshened the air which-

Which smelled of takeaway. Specifically of the mound of takeaway containers on the table, from at least four different restaurants Crowley and Aziraphale had frequented in the past few years. And the table was low and surrounded by huge pillows and cushions, black and green, that created a very comfortable looking...

Nest-ish thing.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale said.

“Ngk,” said Crowley, who was busy feeling rather more _seen_ than he’d planned for. These were things _he_ liked, inexplicably strewn about Aziraphale’s kitchen, arranged so as to be comfortable and _intimate._ He crossed his arms.

“Is it a bit much? I’m afraid it might be a bit much.” The second-guessing seemed only fair, Crowley supposed. They didn’t tend to go in for grand gestures like this, and if they did it was usually Crowley who initiated.

“You did all this?” Crowley asked, though the answer was obvious. “For me?” It wasn’t that it would have taken a lot of miracles to create this sort of cozy spot, it was just… the intention behind them. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Well, not the storm. That was a coincidence.” Crowley could feel Aziraphale wringing his hands behind him. “It's just that we were out last week, and I thought I rather owed you a nice evening. It's a bit rushed perhaps but I do think you'll like it and, well, you did so many lovely meals leading up to the... end of the world.” He didn’t mention that they had been temptations as much as dates, that they had lined up with the moments Heaven’s influence or Aziraphale’s worry about disobeying orders had been strongest.

“I wasn’t keeping track,” Crowley said vaguely. He turned to Aziraphale. “I’ve never been keeping track. Who owed who lunch, I thought that was all… you know. An excuse.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “And what makes you think this isn’t?”

“Er.”

Sit down, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, steering him towards the cushions. “We didn’t do dinner, and I’m sure you must be hungry.”

Now that some of the surprise had worn off, Crowley realized that he was very hungry indeed. He sprawled out along the cushions and began nosing in the containers until Aziraphale waved him away saying that he could make up the plate and why didn’t Crowley just relax. Crowley didn’t quite manage that, though Aziraphale took special care to choose foods he liked and which went well together. The smell of what turned out to be _six_ takeaway places was actually a bit much, the mix of smells and flavors overwhelming, but Crowley wafted most of the conflicting scents out the door.

When Aziraphale handed him a plate, Crowley made a conscious attempt to loosen his spine. They were safe and Aziraphale clearly wanted this and Crowley... Crowley did too.

Aziraphale served himself generously as well but, for once, his attention seemed to be on Crowley more than on the food. He fussed over the second plate in ways that were really quite unnecessary, patted Crowley’s shoulder, watched him fondly. Crowley’s skin felt tight and exposed under the attention, and he kept his head ducked, eyes on his plate because he couldn’t stop his face from doing things like _blushing_ or _smiling._

“Your plants need work,” he pointed out as coolly a possible, pulling a vine close to inspect it and break the silence. “Kind of wilty, these. Not show quality. No spine,” he added, as the leaf started shriveling under his touch.

“Now dear, they’re doing quite well, considering. And they’re not _for_ show. They’re for us. For you, rather.”

Crowley let the vine shrink back to the wall and swallowed down the _something_ he was feeling. “Well you don’t have to _tell_ them.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale mildly. “I don’t mind.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that.

“It’s just,” Aziraphale said, several minutes later, as Crowley swallowed a falafel whole, “I’m very _glad_ the world didn’t end.”

“Mngk,” agreed Crowley, and that seemed to be that.

He had four plates of food and several glasses of wine and then, beginning to feel very full indeed, snuggled up against Aziraphale and let the angel feed him bits straight out of the containers. “I looked it up,” he murmured sleepily, in between bites. “Turns out gorillas really _do_ make nests.”

“You see? I knew I’d seen it somewhere,” Aziraphale said.

“Just flattened down bits of leaves and things, though. Not proper nests. Not like, er.” He’d been about to gesture at the setup Aziraphale had created, gone so far as raising his hand, but he put it down again, suddenly unwilling to assume Aziraphale’s intention.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “You’re hardly a gorilla, now are you?”

Crowley giggled quietly. “Nuh.”

“There we are, then.” He pressed a dumpling between Crowley’s lips.

Crowley stretched, his legs nearly toppling over a large container of rice (which was rather surprised to suddenly find itself back on the table and thoroughly safe), spine twisting in an attempt to ease some of the ache in his stomach. He was very full and it showed; his round belly swelled against his shirt, patches of scales visible just under the hem. Aziraphale fed him another dumpling.

After several minutes the ache had only gotten stronger. “Don’t suppose you could, erf, give me a hand,” Crowley said, his face half-buried in Aziraphale’s chest. “If you want to keep going. You know.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, of course.” He ate the last dumpling himself, and then very gently pressed a warm hand to Crowley’s stomach. Crowley sighed and closed his eyes. He’d done this for Aziraphale during the lead-up to the apocalypse. It had been a long time since it’d been done for him, but it was nice. It was one of the pleasures of the world.

He kept his eyes closed and let Aziraphale continue to feed him morsels, twisted so Aziraphale rubbed the right places and kept the inevitable ache at bay.

The world closed in until it was only darkness and warmth, bites of what was now some kind of cake, gentle pressure and calloused fingers. Aziraphale said some things, but Crowley was drifting off and didn’t pay attention. He did catch a very fond “thank you, dear,” that he couldn’t quite make sense of-- wasn’t _he_ the one being pampered?-- and managed a breathless “mhf” in response.

He would have asked about it but all meaning was getting softer now, less pressing, until finally, with a gentle sigh, a sated and comfortable and very cared-for Crowley drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought. 
> 
> As always I can be found on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, twitter as @beardspores, and dreamwidth as DwarvenBeardSpores.


End file.
